Not of Cesaro or Lorenzo.
Not even of my own death.
It’s of Birdie walking toward me in that white wedding gown that made her look like an angel.Myangel. We would have been happy. I know that. But now she has a chance at happiness and love.
Good, I think.
Then everything falls away.
30
Lorenzo
“He’s gone,” one of my men says, rising from Russo’s body.
I close my eyes and exhale through my nose.
If I had gotten here two minutes earlier, he might still be alive.
Fuck.
For one ugly beat, all I can think about is Elizabeth. About the message she left me. About how I am going to tell her that the man she trusted enough to call for help is dead on a hotel balcony because my second-in-command decided tonight was the night to set the world on fire.
Her voice echoes in my head.
It was Cesaro.
How did I not know? How did I let one of my own men stand at my shoulder while he betrayed me from beneath my roof?
A low groan cuts through the aftermath. I turn from Russo’s body and cross to Cesaro. He’s sprawled near the shattered balcony doors, blood slicking the floor beneath him, face graywith pain, breaths coming wet and uneven. He should already be dead but isn’t.
Not yet.
His eyes find mine and something desperate flickers there. “Help,” he gurgles.
I crouch in front of him.
“I’m going to help.”
Relief blooms across his face so quickly it almost makes me laugh. I let him have this hope for a moment. Then I lean in and let him see exactly what I mean.
“Oh, no, Cesaro. I’m going to keep you alive so I can find out why you betrayed me.” My voice is soft enough to be mistaken for kindness by anyone who doesn’t know me. “When I have my answers, you will be very much dead.”
The relief curdles into fear.
“Get him downstairs,” I say, standing. “Patch him up enough that he lasts the night.”
One of my men glances from Russo to me. “And Russo?”
I look once at the body on the floor.
Dante’s eyes are closed. His face has already gone still in that final way that makes every grudge feel smaller than it did five minutes before.
“Call it in anonymously,” I say. “Make sure it lands on the right ears.” My gaze drops back to Cesaro. “This one comes with us.”
We take him to the warehouse on the river. One of the old places. Brick. Iron beams. Concrete floor stained by years of oil and blood. The kind of building where screams get swallowedby the water and no one asks questions if they hear them anyway. Even if they do hear, they’re on my payroll.
By the time we strap Cesaro to a metal chair under the hanging work light, he’s pale enough to look carved from wax. A doctor has done just enough to keep him breathing. Bandaged the worst of the damage. Stopped the bleeding that would have done my work for me too early.
